


Every Shadow In Between

by IdleLeaves



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drugged Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: Crowley comes to Aziraphale for help after accidentally ingesting sage.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 143
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Every Shadow In Between

The knock comes at the bookshop door as afternoon fades into evening. "I'm afraid we're quite definitely closed," Aziraphale says to himself, and does not react otherwise. It comes again, though, weak but insistent, and barely audible over the pouring rain. Aziraphale ignores it with practised ease.

The phone rings. Aziraphale sets down his book with a huff, and picks up the receiver. "We're closed," he says, flatly.

"Angel," says Crowley, and even with that single word Aziraphale can tell that something's off. "Open th' door."

Aziraphale hurries to the front of the shop and does as asked. Crowley stumbles through the door, and Aziraphale locks it behind him with a gesture. 

"What's wrong?" Aziraphale asks before he even gets a good look at him.

When he does, it's hard for Aziraphale to suppress a gasp. Crowley's soaked through, dripping onto the mat; aside from that, though, he's terribly pale, swaying like standing upright is more effort than he can manage. His sunglasses are askew, and his eyes behind them are hazy, unfocused.

Aziraphale dries him off with a snap of his fingers, and slips an arm around his waist to steady him. Crowley leans into him, and now, this close, Aziraphale can feel the tremor running through his body. He fights back a rising wave of distress; it's not the time.

He can't help but notice the Bentley parked outside. "Did you _drive_ here?" he asks.

"Not really," says Crowley, the words slurring together. "Car knew where t' take me." He rubs a hand across his forehead. "Dizzy," he says.

Aziraphale begins to guide him, slowly, toward the sofa in the back room. "Crowley," he tries again, tightening his grasp when Crowley very nearly trips. "You need to tell me what's happened."

"Stupid," says Crowley, as Aziraphale sits them both down on the sofa, keeping an arm around Crowley's back and a hand on his shoulder lest he topple forward. "Tea," Crowley says. "Some kind of - don't know - couldn't taste th' sage at first."

Sage. Aziraphale's worry doesn't abate but the smallest slivers of relief are working their way into it as well, now. He knows enough about the effects of sage on demons to be certain - or very nearly - that Crowley will not come to permanent harm, as unpleasant as the next several hours are likely to be.

Crowley hardly reacts as Aziraphale removes his coat and scarf, laying them over a chair, then loosens the top buttons of his shirt. "Perhaps you should lie down, dear," Aziraphale says. Crowley responds by tipping ungracefully sideways to half-lie on the sofa, feet still on the floor. Aziraphale turns and kneels beside him, tugging off his boots and lifting his feet up to the sofa. He tucks a cushion under Crowley's head.

Aziraphale's hand hovers over his temple, but no - he can't miracle this away, much as he might want to. Instead, he touches the back of his hand to Crowley's sweat-dampened forehead. He's warm - warmer than he should be - but not feverish. 

"Headache?" Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley mumbles something that sounds, vaguely, like a _yes_.

Aziraphale fetches a cool, wet flannel and presses it against Crowley's forehead, then his cheeks. Crowley's sunglasses are gone, now - tucked into Aziraphale's shirt pocket - and he's struggling to keep his eyes either open or closed for any length of time. His breath is coming in soft gasps, and as he glances around the room Aziraphale can't be sure what he sees.

The tremors are worsening, now; Crowley's hands tremble, and his teeth clack together like he's chilled to the bone. He's not, but Aziraphale still covers him with a soft, hastily miracled blanket, tucking it in around his shoulders and feet like it might, somehow, still help.

At the very least, it makes Aziraphale feel useful. All he can do, otherwise, is sit beside Crowley on the sofa, stroking his hair as he shudders through the worst of it.

Crowley drops off to sleep - Aziraphale hopes it's sleep - when the tremors finally ease. Once Crowley is calm and breathing easily, Aziraphale relocates to his usual chair, and picks up his book. The rain is still pouring down outside, even harder than before; inside, all is quiet save for the rhythmic tick of Aziraphale's hundred-year-old clock and the occasional flick of a page turning.

The nightmare begins after midnight. It's hard to tell, at first; Crowley does nothing more than shift on the sofa, muttering in his sleep. Aziraphale glances over, closing his book and placing it on the side table next to his forgotten cup of tea. It escalates quickly - Crowley manages to kick off the blanket as he shivers and twitches, and then all at once he's near thrashing, pained sounds and half-words spilling out of him loudly enough that Aziraphale takes only two quick strides to be back by his side.

"Crowley," he says, fingers curling around Crowley's shoulder, shaking him gently. " _Crowley_."

Crowley wakes with a wordless shout, panting and disoriented. He sits up and tries to twist out of Aziraphale's grasp, but Aziraphale holds him steady, speaking softly, until the nightmare fades and the panic ebbs.

"All right?" Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley doesn't immediately answer; underneath the flush on his cheeks he's still uncharacteristically pale, and his hands are unsteady as he runs them over his face. He curls into a corner of the sofa, and Aziraphale retrieves the blanket from the floor, tucking it around him again. 

"There," he says, once it's arranged to his satisfaction. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible. Head bloody hurts," Crowley admits, but almost immediately changes the subject. "What're you reading?"

Aziraphale settles down on the other end of the sofa, and reaches for his book. "A compendium of Victorian poetry. You wouldn't like it."

Crowley sinks further into the sofa, resting his head against a loose cushion. He sighs - a thin, shaky sound - and pulls his feet back under the blanket. "Read some to me, anyway," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "Maybe it'll help me sleep." He tries for a smile, and fails, but Aziraphale returns it regardless.

"Feel better, dear," says Aziraphale. He turns the page, and begins to read.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea that sage is mildly toxic to demons comes from it being used by some to banish malevolent spirits.


End file.
